The Unruly Sprite.
When they came to the tree, there was the little sprite, with his wrists and ankles bound, lying upon the moss. His eyes were closed, and his body was white as a snowdrop. They knelt down, one on each side of him, and untied the cord. To their surprise his hands felt warm. "I believe he is not quite dead," said the lady. "Shall we try to bring him to life?" asked the man. And with that they fell to chafing his wrists and his palms. Presently he gave each of them a slight pressure of the fingers.
"Did you feel that?" cried she.
"Indeed I did," the man answered. "It shook me to the core. Would you like to take him on your lap so that I can chafe his feet?"
The lady nodded and took the soft little body on her knees and held it close to her, while the man kneeled before her rubbing the small, milk-white feet with strong and tender touches. Presently, as they were thus engaged, they heard the sprite faintly whispering, while one of his eyelids flickered:
"I think—if each of you—would kiss me—on opposite cheeks—at the same moment—those kind of movements would revive me."
The two friends looked at each other, and the man spoke first.
"He talks ungrammatically, and I think he is an incorrigible little savage, but I love him. Shall we try his idea?"
"If you love him," said the lady, "I am willing to try, provided you shut your eyes."